


for sake of conversation, could you read the writings on my sleeve?

by fayble (Tab_oo)



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: M/M, starlight!hughie, supe!hughie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tab_oo/pseuds/fayble
Summary: He’syounger, in person, that is, with shiny brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair and the sort of bright red cheeks Frenchie’s only seen on cartoon chipmunks. He has alook, too, a look like Frenchie’s just done something unimaginable, an incredulous sort of look that his thinly pressed smile only accentuates.Hughie Campbell is 6 feet of pretty freckled white skin, all long legs and all the grace of a newborn fawn, and Frenchie justlooks, and there's something burning in his throat because there’s no way he can kill a boy likethat.-or where frenchie has a hard time learning to forget.





	for sake of conversation, could you read the writings on my sleeve?

Hugh Campbell’s file is a pale beige color, relatively plain, and is about four inches thick. It’s filled to the brim with random information - everything that could prove possibly lethal, down to a particular aversion to plastic curly straws. 

Frenchie wonders how truly _stupid_ this particular supe must be for the association to have _so_ much info on him. 

He’s new to the Seven, relatively young compared to the others - somewhere in his early twenties. He’s tall for his age, too - roughly 6 feet, discerning from the blurry photographs paperclipped to the manila folder, and quite scrawny.

It’s a little painful, a little harsh, thinking about it - thinking about ripping away success from a most likely small town guy the second it comes, about tearing away newfound dreams that he wouldn’t have even considered before. 

He doesn’t know the man. He doesn’t.

He still cares. And when he’s done, when the supe’s torso is a meaningless mass of red rubble on the ground, he just _knows_ his mutilated face will _stick_, will cling to his mind and harass him deep in the confines of the night.

He will remember, as he does, the man’s death.

Frenchie - he doesn’t like to think he’s an emotional guy. After all, he doesn’t cry or whine or throw a tantrum when life tries fucking him over.

But he _feels_, as a human does, as a _supe_ doesn’t. 

(He tries to remind himself that this is a supe - to think like Butcher, in a sense - that this man deserves it, that if he’s not already as heartless and reckless as Translucent or A-Train or _Homelander_ already are then he will be, that he’s _not human_.)

But a job is a job, as easy as it may be.

He’s always been too sympathetic.

\---

Vought International _still_ has truly laughable security.

An hour passes, and Frenchie’s standing in the headquarters of the Seven, a floppy hat  
obscuring part of his face.

(He doesn’t remember being this good at his job. 

He doesn’t like that very much.)

He’s dressed as a menial janitor today - it’s a tad disappointing that security hadn’t given him much of a hassle on the way up and a lot less surprising - complete with a dark blue uniform and shiny black boots. It’s not the lackluster quality of the outfit he’s concerned with - or fond of - but instead its surprising capacity to hold weaponry. He’s got two hunting knives and a suppressed Desert Eagle tucked somewhere in its many pockets with no more than a couple slightly irregular folds.

Plus the dirty mop in his hands. Judging from the particular stupidity of his new target, it might as well count.

He stares at a perfectly clean spot on the marble floor and scrubs idly at it.

There are things to think about.

\---

A tall figure enters the room.

Frenchie jolts, looking up from his spot, the spot on the floor, perfectly clean and perfectly in order, and sees.

It’s _him_.

He’s - _much_ more of a sight in person.

He’s _younger_, in person, that is, with shiny brown eyes and a mop of curly brown hair and the sort of bright red cheeks Frenchie’s only seen on cartoon chipmunks. He has a _look_, too, a look like Frenchie’s just done something unimaginable, an incredulous sort of look that his thinly pressed smile only accentuates. 

Hughie Campbell is 6 feet of pretty freckled white skin, all long legs and all the grace of a newborn fawn, and Frenchie just looks, and there's something burning in his throat, because there’s no way he can kill a boy like _that_.

It’s funny, in some sort of way.

It’s really, really funny because that’s just not. It’s not.

That’s just not what he thought, not what he told himself two months before, not what happened before he just went and-

And-

He bites his tongue, a last ditch attempt to clear his head, and clamps his incisors on it far too hard - curses, then stumbles on his own feet like an idiot. His mop clatters to the floor with a _painful_ noise.

So he’s not _that_ good at his job.

The boy - Hugh - turns to look at him, concern written all over his young face, pressed smile fading away. “Ah, geez, I - are you okay?” he asks, rushing forwards to clutch one of his arms just because he does, just because he has to be as _nice_ as he is young for a member of the Seven, just because he has to be a _good fucking Supe._

He’s got to be, he’s got to, because there’s no fucking way that kid can be good at such a _convincing_-

“I’m fine,” he says slowly, quietly, keeping his eyes pinned to the floor. He tries his best to not instinctively back away, to not withdraw so feverishly like some sort of wild animal. Tries to remember that this is a supe, a member of the Seven, and a normal janitor would be _revering_ him instead of eyeing him like he’s covered in blood or shit or worse.

“I’m Moonface,” the boy offers when Frenchie finally lifts his eyes to meet his gaze, soft smile reappearing quickly like some sort of fucking boomerang.

Moonface. 

Of fucking course his name is stupid. As if he wasn’t fucking down to earth, fucking _likeable_ enough. 

Frenchie feels a choked sort of laughter die in his throat.

With his free hand, he picks up the mop.

“But, um, most people call me Hugh. Or - or Hughie.”

Then the supe goes and stuffs his hands in his pocket like some damn middle schooler when Frenchie pulls his arm away, radiating youth and so much damn naiveté.

He shudders, subtle and gentle, and realizes that it’s - endearing, in a strange sort of way.

Empathy for a member of the Seven.

Fuck, Butcher’s going to _kill_ him.

But - but-

He draws in a quick breath, feeling _something_ rattle in his throat, and realizes that he’s never met anyone quite like him, quite like this supe. He’s never met anyone who goes against their blood, their upbringing, their future, and it’s _thrilling_, the feeling of hatred and admiration that tears viciously at him.

This kid-

He doesn’t know him.

But he’s making him _feel_, deep and strong and _violent_, and he doesn’t know him.

(He didn’t know _them_, either. 

They made him feel, too, after their heads were smashed on the ground, after their blood painted his face, his fingers, after everything he could see was a harsh, unforgiving shade of crimson.)

Why is he like this?

Frenchie lifts his hat a smidge - just because _he does_ \- and reveals his face like some fucking idiot two seconds into meeting this supe just because he _feels_, and offers a wry smile.

He’s going to fucking die, he realizes suddenly. He can feel it. He always knew emotion would overtake him - never wanted to admit it to anyone, of course, but he always fucking _knew_.

All for a supe with a pretty fucking face.

For once, he can agree with Mother’s Milk. He’s a goddamn whore.

“People call me Frenchie,” he says simply, and his fingers clench the mop. His knuckles are turning white.

He’s lucky he came in alone.

\---

“I told you!” Hughie exclaims, doe-like eyes a little too droopy for him to be relatively sober. “Lamplighter’s the guy who’s got the giant torch - _thing_. Pretty sure Fire Guy isn’t even a superhero, Fuh - Frenchie.”

“Yeah, sure,” Frenchie snorts, shots of cheap vodka forgotten. He doesn’t care much about the trivia game - the subject matter as well - but Hughie, being _Hughie_, had demanded to enter the game, excitement glimmering in his eyes. And, while he knows _plently_ about supes - which generally comes with the experience of having killed at least sixteen of them - he’s not particularly thrilled revealing that bit to him. He’s a bit too nervous to play well, anyways - he doesn’t just take _people_ to _places_ \- especially, especially not a fucking supe. 

But - but after they had _talked_ \- rather, Hughie had talked on and on in his fervor to make some sort of friend from Vought, and Frenchie simply hadn’t had the heart to interrupt him with a couple of well-aimed gunshots or an innocent question about his allergies. 

Besides, Frenchie’s always had far too much of weakness for big brown eyes and pale skin.

His fingers scrub at the bottom of the dark table nervously, peeling at a bit of old purple gum stuck to the bottom. The lights are blinding, constantly pulsing in a different series of pulses, and the rather atrocious alcohol he’s ordered does nothing to mitigate the insistent glare.

The bar they’re in is far too dingey, far too _familiar_ for it to be relatively safe for him to take Hughie to, but he could fucking care less. Besides, he doubts either of them would be relatively comfortable in some washed up, actually _presentable_ bar.

Still. He should take shame, bringing America’s newest sweetheart to a bar fucking called the Swinging Teat, but - man, _fuck_ if he cares anymore.

“Whatever you say, _mon coeur_,” Frenchie says, amused and strangely _soft_. “You still look like a small town boy to _me_.” The surprising part about it is how easy it comes - the crooked tilt of his smile, pleased tone bubbling to the surface of his voice, even _mon coeur_, and he knows how lucky he is that

Hughie takes a moment to contemplate that, cheeks flushed redder than the bright, bubbly drink he had sheepishly requested, and nibbles idly at his bottom lip. 

He’s shy again, suddenly looking almost as nervous as Frenchie feels - and _oh_, boy, he _feels_, he feels because there’s this boy, just a boy who’s already gotten himself into the Seven and he’s actually kind and nervous and so naive and if he knew, if he could know just a fraction of how ravishing he looks. 

“I guess it’s because I’m just - so...What - what’s the word?” The supe’s boot suddenly presses down on Frenchie’s, all subtle-like, and he’s a fraction of an inch away from misplacing it as some sort of _stroke_, some tender motion that he won’t blame on the alcohol. “Pretty,” Hughie decides suddenly, tilting his head like a quaint little puppy. 

Frenchie gulps, tense and loud, because he already knows that this is the sort of thing Hughie doesn’t say, the sort of thing that can only be blamed on drafts of that cheap drink.

And maybe, maybe that stupid boy does know - know that he’s a fucking sure thing - Frenchie decides when he sees the boy’s eyebrows honest to God _waggle_. 

Fuck, he can’t think around him.

Why-

It’s been a _day_ \- he’s known him for a _day_ and-

Frenchie swallows deeply, and the way Hughie tracks the movement on the column of his throat - it can’t be his imagination.

“Hm,” Frenchie muses, slow and careful because he’s known him for a _day_, and lets the smile pull longer at his face. “I apologize, but I would not agree, _mon coeur_.” Because Hughie’s pretty - it’s a fact, a truth that will never change, something that he can’t accredit to some sort of farmer boy charm.

Still, he plays it off like some sort of joke, the joke that it _should be_ because Hughie’s a supe and Frenchie’s _normal_ and they shouldn’t be having this conversation now, not when his contract calls for Hughie’s blood and flesh gathering under his nails. 

“Really?” Hughie frowns - _pouts_, even, like a disappointed smile, before he downs the rest of the drink and leans forwards. His other shoe shoots out, working with the other to clasp Frenchie’s leg, and _okay_, that’s certainly not some innocent _pressing_ or whatever the fuck he had called it before. Not when that boy’s smirking - and really, Hughie, fucking _Moonface_, smirking! The sight of it! - like _that_.

“I think you do,” Hughie continues, uncharacteristically bold, and the wry twist of his lips - the new confidence pulling away his self-guessing strings - forces Frenchie to clench the table for stability.

He closes his eyes for a moment too long, tries his best to steady his breathing, and laughs mirthlessly. “_Really_. And why would you think that?” His voice wavers, and Hughie notices.

Fucking supes.

He glances around like they’re sharing some sort of secret, more drunk than afraid, and leans forwards, drumming his fingers against the table. 

“I know some French,” he says plainly, and Frenchie knows he’s caught.

\---

It doesn’t feel right. Not when he can still see them, staring eerily at him on the edge of his peripherals, their faces senseless mashes of red and their bodies-

He’ll always remember.

\---

(Later, after he tries stumbling his way through some stupid apology about the nickname, tries to lie that all Frenchmen use _mon coeur_ for _friends_, he’s cut off by gentle laughter.

“Don’t lie,” Hughie says, withdrawing his feet, and his toothy grin makes him look like an actual hero.

He’s still a supe, though. He's a supe - someone with a manila file and a bounty on his head that Frenchie should be cashing in right now - and nothing will change that.

Nothing will change the fact that Frenchie remembers.

But then Hughie leans forwards some more, brown hair a mess of disheveled curls, and uses his hands to grip the collar of Frenchie’s old jacket and pull him down.

Frenchie thinks he can try to forget.)

**Author's Note:**

> finally pushed this out goddamn
> 
> originally was going to be with billy instead of frenchie, but i realized i would have to write a sad ending so i changed my mind!! i just really wanted to explore a superhero hughie au, since he would fit starlight's role as the new innocent member really well in my opinion. and, unfortunately, since i couldn't think of a power that fitted hughie, i turned him into starlight lmao. 
> 
> i'd be very interested in hearing ideas about supe!hughie's powers, though!


End file.
